Pen turned to MacKenzie, suddenly aware that out of everyone in the room, they were the only ones without a match. Her stomach did a queer flip at the thought. Did he feel it too, this sense of destiny? “Will you show me the room there tomorrow?”
He swallowed and cast about his eyes, as though in search of a savior.
“You d-did offer to show me anything I wished,” she reminded him, a bit peeved he had to think so hard about it.
Brown eyes met hers slowly. “Aye. I did.” He nodded gruffly. “Tomorrow, then. Six o’clock. I’ll arrange it with the innkeeper.”
Pen smiled her thanks and then stood up, her skirts falling decisively about her feet. The picture of perfect gentlemen, the men stood dutifully as well. She knew what she was about to do might be viewed as forward, but she hoped the others in the room would presume her request was for the article she planned to write.
She’d wrangled this invitation to Kilmartie Castle in the hopes of procuring a few moments alone with MacKenzie, but so far it had been an ordinary—and crowded—sort of dinner party. In fact, he seemed determined to put an even greater distance between them, and she was determined to see it reversed. She only had a few more days in town, and she didn’t want to waste them dancing around what could be. “And would you also show me the view from the front lawn tonight, Mr. MacKenzie?” she asked, pulling her notebook from her reticule as a sort of cover. “It seems as though it should be a spectacular s-sunset.”
“Sunset?” MacKenzie said hoarsely, not moving toward her in the slightest.
She inclined her head and waved her notebook. “Research, you know.”
There was a beat of silence, where he seemed to be considering how to tell her no.
But then James grabbed William by the arm and propelled him toward the door. “He’d be happy to, Miss Tolbertson.” James grinned. “Capital idea, a bit of research.”
MacKenzie scowled as he shook his brother free and then grimly offered her his arm. She accepted it and then tried to temper the tilt of her heart as he escorted her from the room. They walked down an endless hallway where their footsteps echoed and scores of Earls of Kilmartie stared down from the wall. She’d thought he would say something. Anything. After all, he’d kissed her, only two nights ago. They were something past mere acquaintances.
But he seemed determined to show her the sunset and not a single thing more.
Finally they stepped out of the front doors on to the lawn, and Pen drew in a startled breath, her fingers curling into the solid strength of his arm. This afternoon, when McRory had pointed out the castle to her, she’d imagined the view from its lawn would be magnificent.
She considered now whether staggering might be a more appropriate word choice.
The lawn swept down to the edge of a cliff, shimmering against a kaleidoscope sky. The clouds seemed set on fire and all too happy to burn. She could see white-capped surf in the distance and, as the coast curved out of sight, magnificent stone cliffs plunging to the sea.
“It’s . . . incredible,” she whispered, shading her eyes with her notebook and trying to take it all in. She was a confident writer, but how on earth could she be expected to describe something like this in the space of a newspaper article?
“Aye,” he agreed stiffly. “I never grow tired of it.”
“I c-can’t imagine you would.” She tried to write a few notes down but found the wind was too strong, fluttering the pages under her hand. Moreover, she found she didn’t want to take her eyes from the view a second longer than was necessary.
Sighing, she shoved the notebook back in her reticule.
Perhaps she was spending too much time with it anyway. Wasn’t the point of the experience to see things as a tourist would?
“I’ve been thinking more about the things McRory told you today,” MacKenzie said, his voice a rumble over the wind. “ ’Tis fine if you mention the castle as a historical site, but I’d appreciate if you dinna mention me your article.”
Pen shifted her eyes to him and found the view every bit as moving as the one on the horizon. He was staring out at the cliff as though seeing it for the first time. The amber light softened his features, and the breeze tumbled strands of dark hair about his forehead. She could see hints of silver at his temples, and she imagined having the freedom and the permission to run her fingers through it.
What would he do if she kissed him again, this time with the sun on their faces?
“But . . . why?” she asked, truly curious about his answer. She was beginning to think MacKenzie was quite possibly the most important piece of it all.
“I dinna take it for granted, you ken.” He raised his hand, sweeping it wide. “The title, the castle, any of it. We were not raised to this. My father only came to be earl by a series of unforeseen events.” His gaze pulled to hers, and she was startled to see an almost pleading look in his eyes. “I suppose what I am trying to say is that I intend this opportunity to help the town, not myself. I’ve already been given more than I need.”
Pen felt a spreading warmth in her chest. “I think I understand,” she said softly. “And I won’t mention you, if you d-do not wish me to.” At his nod of thanks, she smiled. “I only hope they appreciate what you are doing for them. You have g-gone to a great deal of trouble to impress me, arranging this room at the Blue Gander. I am looking forward to seeing it tomorrow.”
In fact, the thought of having MacKenzie alone, in a room with a bed and four walls and a lock on the door, made the breath grow short in her lungs.
She imagined he blanched somewhat. “About the Gander,” he said, shaking his head, “I think it might be better to have James show the room to you.”
Pen’s lips firmed. Why was he trying so hard to avoid her? She was admittedly inexperienced in the ways of men, but every nuanced gesture, every mangled word, told her MacKenzie was attracted to her.
“I think you are the b-better choice,” she told him. “In fact, I quite insist on it.”
Finally, he nodded, but he did not look happy about it.
She refused to feel a twinge of guilt at his clear reluctance. What would it hurt to see where this went? She would be no future burden to him, had no designs to trap him in marriage. She would go back to London with a lovely memory, and he would remain in Moraig with . . . well, with whatever men had after spending a night in the arms of a woman.
It was all a bit jumbled in her head.
And she had every intention of unjumbling it before this trip was over.
CHAPTER SIX
Penelope arrived early to stage the scene of her own seduction.
She stepped inside the room the innkeeper showed her, absorbing the details with the eye of someone who would faithfully report her findings later. Lace curtains fluttered against the open window, and beyond them she could hear the pleasant sounds of conversation out on the street. There was fresh paint on the walls, a lovely soft blue that made her regret not having stayed here from the start.
She set her bag down and smiled at the anxious innkeeper. “It is quite lovely.”
The man pulled a kerchief from his pocket and mopped the top of his balding head. “Well, at the Blue Gander, we pride ourselves on running a clean, respectable establishment. You might mention in your article that the maid, Sally, is instructed to provide the guests anything they might want. They have only to ask.”
Pen suppressed a giggle, recalling the exchange she had overheard several nights ago. Sally’s offer hadn’t sounded very respectable to her, but perhaps it might appeal to a certain kind of tourist. Namely, the male tourists.
But she nodded encouragingly, wrote a few things down in her notebook, and then shooed the innkeeper on, determined to have a moment alone to collect her thoughts before MacKenzie arrived and sent them scattering to the winds again.
She paused a moment, listening to the open window with a cocked ear. The games started tomorrow morning, and already the town’s population had begun to swell in anticipation. By the
conversations she could hear swirling on the street, it seemed half the town was betting on Mr. McRory to win the famed caber toss.
The other half were betting on William MacKenzie.
She counted herself among the latter, but not only in the matter of cabers.
She smoothed a hand over the bed’s beautiful coverlet, a patchwork of bright colors embroidered with a Celtic cross. The room felt bright and new, but it also held what appeared to be Caledonian artifacts on the bureau, illustrating the rich history of the land and its people. She paused, fingering a small statue. Clearly, a good deal of thought and effort had been put into this. As a reporter and a tourist, Pen could appreciate the careful perfection of the room.
As a woman bent on seduction, however, it was not quite right.
So she shut the window and pulled the lace curtains closed against the early-evening sun, until the room was bathed only in a lovely, dim light. She turned back the beautiful embroidered coverlet on the bed and plumped the pillows. She opened her valise and pulled out a small bottle of vinegar and a sponge, taking the hopeful precaution she’d read about but had never thought to need. Thank goodness Moraig wasn’t so rustic as to lack a chemist shop.
Should she change into something more . . . accessible?
But no, her night rails were plain cotton, hardly the stuff of lustful fantasies. She had not packed her bag in London intending to seek out this experience, and she’d never seen the need for a trousseau. Until she’d met MacKenzie, she’d never met a man who’d made her regret her choice of sleeping garments.
She unfastened the top buttons of her bodice and then studied her reflection critically in the washstand mirror. The shadowed vee between her breasts was just visible, and so she loosened another button. It would not do to go into battle unarmed, particularly when her opponent seemed so reluctant to engage in the sort of skirmish she sought.
She was paler than she would like, and she did not want MacKenzie to think she was nervous. She pinched her cheeks and then pulled the pins from her hair, one by one, until the warm, heavy coils fell about her shoulders.
She studied her reflection again. Yes, that was better.
She looked ready to be ravished.
Unless she’d made the room too dark for him to notice her efforts . . .
She was halfway to the window, intending to open the curtains again, when the sound of boots on the threshold froze her in place. She turned slowly, her heart like a hammer in her chest.
He stood in the doorway, his big shoulders nearly filling the space to completion. He looked confused as his eyes dropped to her bodice, a long, slow slide of perusal that made her skin burn in anticipation. She laced her fingers in front of her in a bid to control their trembling.
“C-come inside, MacKenzie,” she somehow found the courage to say.
After a moment’s hesitation, he did, placing his hat on the bureau next to the artifacts. “I was surprised when the innkeeper said you were already here. I thought we had agreed to six o’clock.”
“I wanted a moment to see the r-room alone. Research, you know.”
“Aye.” His voice sounded hoarse. “I know how you like your research.” His eyes lingered on her unbound hair, and a stark look of want settled over his face. “You . . . ah . . . look as though you are ready to take a wee nap. Should I come back later?”
“No.” The word escaped her lips more harshly than she’d intended. She calmed herself with a carefully indrawn breath. “That is, I am not t-tired.” She moved toward the door and was dismayed to see him edge away.
For heaven’s sake. She was not going to bite him.
Unless he wanted her to.
She reached the door just as he reached the bed. He scratched his head, looking very much like the bumbling beast who had greeted her outside the posting house. “Is . . . er . . . everything in the room to your liking?”
She shut the door and locked it. “Now it is.”
“Miss Tolbertson—”
“Pen. As we agreed.”
She stepped toward him, and as the bed was at his back, he really had nowhere to go. He shuffled an uncomfortable moment, enduring her determined advance, his dark eyes everywhere and nowhere on her skin. “Cameron says only your sister is permitted to call you ‘Pen.’ That others, when invited to do so, call you ‘Penelope.’ ”
That made her stop a moment. Was it true? She’d never taken the time to think on it. And moreover, what did that mean? If William MacKenzie was naught but a fling, why had she invited him to address her so intimately? There was something about him—his eagerness to please, his devotion to town and family—that engendered as much by way of friendship as seduction. She shook her head, trying to clear it of that thought.
She had not staged the room to procure only his friendship.
She took another step. “You invited me to call you ‘William.’ ”
“And yet you do not.” He pulled a hand through his dark hair, as though trying to settle his nerves. He cast a hand to the staged bed. “What are we doing here, Pen? If not a nap, what, precisely, do you want from me?”
She was nearly on him now, and the hand he had just pulled through his hair reached out as though to stop her. But he was very tall, and she was not, and the gesture had the fortunate effect of placing his fingers very close to her waiting breasts. She could feel the calloused rasp of his fingers against the sensitive skin she had exposed and imagined she could feel the acceleration of his pulse as he touched her. She placed her hand over his, pressing it into her flesh.
“I w-want you to show me this,” she whispered.
Brown eyes burned down at her, delivering a message that was nearly the opposite of reluctance. And yet, his hand stayed rigid against her body, a warning and perhaps a plea. “You play a dangerous game, lass. I’m a man who wants you fiercely. It is not easy to remain a gentleman when you look at me so.”
His admission made her heart leap wildly. He wanted her. She was not imagining the tension that hummed between them. And where there was want, there was hope.
“Then d-don’t remain a gentleman.” She stared at his mouth, which looked ready to devour her at a single word. “I am t-twenty-six, MacKenzie. A stammering spinster, with no intention or d-desire to marry.” She pushed against his hand and leaned in, going up on her toes, until her lips hovered only a few inches from his. “But that does not mean I do not want—do not deserve—to know something of life.”
His fingers seemed to soften against her skin. “You do not have to be a spinster,” he said softly, in his stomach-turning brogue. “Christ, Pen, you’ve passion enough for five women. You could have a husband and see that passion met every day if you wished.” His lips lowered a fraction of an inch, an unfulfilled promise she could still not quite reach. “And do not use your stammer as an excuse. Any gentleman would count himself fortunate to have you.”
That startled her enough to make her blink. Was she using her stammer as an excuse? Certainly, the men of Brighton had considered her an object to mock, rather than kiss. Had she pushed away all thoughts of love and marriage because her desire for self-sufficiency had demanded it or simply because they had seemed out of reach?
With her pulse so heavy in her ears, it was hard to sort out which had come first.
“I d-do not wish to take a husband,” she said, almost desperately now. “I enjoy my independence, and I won’t b-barter my body for the purpose of procuring a protector I do not need.” She pulled his hand lower, until it was pressed more fully against the swell of her breast. “I want this. I am bound to d-discover it eventually. But you are the only one who has ever made the breath catch in my throat, MacKenzie. I want this experience to be with you, not someone else.”
His eyes narrowed, as though imagining—and disapproving—of the thought of her doing this with someone else.
She licked her lips. “And you d-did say you would show me whatever I wished.”
With a growl, his lips descended on hers, and then
she was pulled into the dark heat of him, the kiss blissful and brutal and beautiful, all at once.
And oh, dear heavens, how this man could kiss. His mouth moved against hers, tongue stroking her own in a wicked hint of promise. She wrapped her arms around his neck, wanting to be only closer. They fell backward onto the bed, her body stretched against his hard length, their mouths still joined in battle. He tasted of salt and outdoors and the merest hint of tooth powder, and the scrape of his chin against her cheek was its own kind of pleasure.
She regretted, then, not having changed into her night rail, because if she had, they’d be halfway closer to where she wanted to be.
She gave her hands permission to roam, making short work of his necktie as they kissed and then moving lower. As her fingers splayed over his broad, hard chest, she could feel the coiled strength lying in wait beneath the linen of his shirt. She ripped several buttons free from his collar in frustration as she slipped her hand inside, wanting to be closer still.
But with a muffled groan, he broke off their kiss and shifted their bodies, putting more space between them. She wanted to pant her objection, pull him back into the kiss, but she stilled as the change in their positions began to register in her quivering thoughts.
Suddenly she was the one on her back.
He had taken control.
And he was rearing over her, looking every inch the wild Highlander.
She waited for him to fall on her, waited for the ravishment she’d been hoping for. Instead he lifted a hand and rubbed his knuckles against her cheek, almost tenderly, though his features seemed strained with the effort of holding back. “If we are going to do this, lass, we’ll take it a bit slower, aye?”
Pen caught her lower lip in her teeth and somehow found the sense to nod. He appeared to be agreeing with her proposition, praise the temptation gods. She did not want to do or say anything that might send him running now.
He dipped his head, pressing his warm mouth to the hollow at the base of her throat. She sucked in a breath, surprised at the gentle heat of his touch but willing to follow his lead, as long as he did not stop. Her entire body was trembling now, and at her core there was a delicious, spreading heat that made her feel a bit like molten wax, waiting to be shaped into what he would make her.
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